


Camp, sweet camp

by Acid_Capricorn



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: AU! according to dial M for Jasper, And mentions of the usual suspects, Counselor!Max, F/M, M/M, Now featuring: an actual plot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ten Years Later, Unbeta'd, With a fresh batch of kiddies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acid_Capricorn/pseuds/Acid_Capricorn
Summary: Camp Campbell: Campe DiemNow hiring for the position of camp co-counsellor!Applicants please call: 555 – Camp (Ask to speak with David.) Or come down and speak with our counsellors. Staff will be available from 7 to 9 AM, before camp activates commence and 8 PM onwards, after camp activities finish for the day (Excluding weekends.)This is it, Max tells himself. He's semi-homeless, definitely broke, and about to ask the bane of his ten-year-old-self’s existence for a job that obviously hasn’t been taken yet for a reason.This is rock-fucking-bottom.





	1. Archery pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 20/07/2018

**Camp Campbell  
_Campe Diem_**

**Now hiring for the position of camp co-counsellor!**

**Applicants please call: 555 – Camp (Ask to speak with David.)**  
**Or come down and speak with our counsellors.**  
 **Staff will be available from 7 to 9 AM, before camp activates commence and 8 PM onwards, after camp activities finish for the day (Excluding weekends.)**

Max kicks shut the door to his kind-of-a-piece-of-shit second hand car (it has a fucking  _tape. deck_. If that doesn’t scream ‘I’m dirt poor’, Max didn’t know what did.) And chuckles dryly to himself as he slides out of the driver’s seat.  _Who would have thought I’d end up back here?_  He certainly didn’t, and yet here he is crunching down the path to Camp- _fucking_ -Campbell.  
_Maybe I have Stockholm syndrome_ , he muses. Camp Campbell, his unwitting captor, and him coming crawling back.  _Though I don’t think that’s exactly how it goes._ Not when he’s here for money, rather than any real lingering feels for that wasted summer when he was ten. That’s what he tells himself.

Over the tops of the trees he can see the flag pole— David would salute, if he was here to walk him in like the first day he arrived that summer. And Max can see him too, in his mind’s eye. Young, and overzealous, and infuriatingly happy _. It’s been ten years, is he still the same?_  Max knows that he won’t be (everyone changes, especially over that long a time) but it’s hard to imagine him as anything other than the excitable twenty-four year old he knew all those years ago.  _Hopefully, he’ll be a little more tolerable now._

The camp is silent, because it's about eight A.M. and no one who can avoid it is up at this ungodly hour of the morning (one of the small mercies of Camp Campbell: they were never expected to be out of bed until at least nine).  
Max worries his bottom lip uncomfortably in the silence, with only his footsteps to keep him company. He's here now, between seven and nine on the instruction of the advertisement, but he feels distinctly out of place.  _Probably look it too, I haven’t showered since I crashed at Nikki’s_. He quickly lifts the neck of his shirt and sniffs the fabric. He smells faintly of sweat, but not so much so that it’s obvious he’s been wearing the same shirt for the last couple of days. At least he thinks it isn’t, but he’s beginning to wish he paid a visit to the laundromat before he came.  _Could have slipped a couple things in with someone else’s load, or just thrown them in the sink._  He’s not sure how well hand soap fares with washing clothes, but it’s bound to be better than nothing.  
Mounting the stairs to the co-counsellor cabin, Max combs his fingers through his unruly mop of hair.  _This is it. Semi-homeless, definitely broke, and about to ask the bane of my ten-year-old self’s existence for a job that obviously hasn’t been taken yet for a reason in a three day old shirt._

_This is rock-fucking-bottom._

And with that little ‘pep-talk’ fresh in his mind, he knocks vigorously at the door before he can whimp out. The sound of a hand to wood echoes in the empty air. “Don't you dare be sleeping camp man, you're the one who wrote in the ad to be here this fucking early.” He’s half hoping if no one answers that he can scamper off with his tail between his legs. He doesn’t need  _this_ job (Though if not this job, he doesn’t know where the hell else would hire him.)  _I’ve heard there’s good money in prostitution._

Just as this thought occurs to him, the door swings open. “Hey! Language! What are you even doing—  _Wait—_ ” David blinks in the doorway, looking simultaneously appalled at the swearing and just really, hopelessly, confused. “You’re not Zeshan?”

“I’m not Zeshan.” Max agrees, whoever the hell that is.  
He can’t help his eyes roaming, giving David the once-over because;  _Jesus_ ,  _the years have been kind to him._  Even though beginnings of crow’s feet creep out from the corners of his eyes, and there’s smile lines, (and surprisingly, there’s frown lines too) he’s no longer the skinny beanpole of twenty-four years. Of course his pyjama top shows a little cartoonish tree declaring ‘I’m  _so_  poplar!’ because this is still  _David._

“Wait—” David says again, “Max?” He shuts his mouth that had been hung open listlessly since opening the door and discovering it wasn’t ‘Zeshan’.

“Yeah sorry I didn't call ahead I uh—”  _Am broke as shit and don’t have a phone,_  Max’s oh-so-helpful subconscious sarcastically supplies. “The ad said staff were available between seven and nine so…” He trails off, unsure.

“The ad?” David is searching Max's face for the answer.

“…for the co-counsellor job?” It sounds less of an answer and more of a question.

“Oh— I forgot I posted that…” David admits. It doesn’t sound promising. Max holds his breath while he waits for the inevitable let down—  _this was a bad idea—_  but it never comes. Instead, David’s face lights up, erasing his expression of bewildered confusion. He’s twenty-four year old David again, absolutely ecstatic. “You want the job? Really?”

Max isn’t sure if he’s happy because it’s him, or he’s happy because someone wants the job. But he quakes in the face of such unbridled happiness, which, directed at him just feels wrong. No one has been happy with him since—  _well._  Since he was here last and David was smiling the same obnoxious smile, even when he was being a downright shit.  
He shoves his hands into his pockets in a way he hopes looks nonchalant and not at all like he's anxiously twisting his fingers into knots behind the fabric, trying to recover himself. He goes for detached apathy: “Thought I'd come down here and save the day before you manage to hire yourself another cultist.”

“Okay.” David's grin widens, looking like he's going to turn his head inside out if it goes any further.

"Wow.” Max blinks and does a double take, shocked. “No wonder you landed us with Daniel if this is your screening process. You're seriously not going to ask any questions? I could be a psycho! Or an axe murderer!”

“Are you?”

“What— of course not!” Max cries indignantly. A myriad of other felonies, sure, but  _Christ_ he’d never kill a man.

David thrusts his hand out, still grinning like a mad man. “Okay. Then welcome back, Max!”

Max takes David’s hand tentatively, an alarmed cry escaping his lips when David jerks him forward, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. There’s no time to slip out of the embrace because David’s grip on him is instantaneous and strong. He holds Max to his chest with his not-as-noodle-thin-as-they-used-to-be arms. Max struggles to do anything other than flop helplessly like a ragdoll with his own arms pinned to his sides. He settles for yelling profanities into David's shoulder and stepping on his feet before he suffers death by being smothered against David’s broad, hard chest. Because, Max realises, David got  _fucking built._  What the _hell_  did he miss in the ten years between then and now?  _Which is besides point,_  Max firmly reminds himself.  _You’re having the life squeezed out of you._

“Ay cnf ucking breefe!”

“What was that? You're glad to be back?” His arms loosen marginally.

“No!” Max cries, making a point of spitting David's shirt out of his mouth and peeling his head back. “I said I can't fucking breathe!”  _Not to mention pressing yourself and your fucking washboard abs against your new employee is basically sexual harassment,_  he has to refrain from adding.

“Hey. Language.” David chastises. “It'll rub off on the kids.”

Max draws a breath as deeply as he can with one probably collapsed lung. He feels like a kid again, drawing on his ever dwindling pool of David-patience to give him the strength not to tear the man a new one. “Okay—” He says “I'm sorry— just let me go I think you broke something—”  _like, every vertebrae in my spinal cord with your beefcake arms._

“Sorry.” David smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He goes to offer his hand again then thinks better of it and just flails about awkwardly, eyes kind-of meeting Max’s but not really. “It’s, uh, good to see you again, Max.”

Max affords himself a small laugh, at David, at himself, at just the absurdity of the situation. In a way, it’s like they're back to being them again (Excluding the part where Max’s head has decided,  _hey, he got kind-of hot_ , which is easy to forget when David opens his mouth and words start coming out.) This time he would try not to be as much of a shit. “Sure, you too dickhead.”

The key word there was  _try_.

David had the good grace to not pick that fight. He claps his hand down on Max’s shoulder and Max jumps a little. “Oh! I can't wait to introduce you to everyone—”

“ _No_.” Max holds up a finger to silence him. “Coffee first, then we can meet the prepubescent shits. It's, still like, eight A.M., so I doubt they'll be happy about being woken up either. And I missed breakfast to be here early - I'm fucking starving.” More like he missed breakfast because he couldn’t afford it, but he wasn’t about to divulge that information.

“Prepubescent  _shits_?” David’s voice raises an octave. So do his eyebrows.

“Sorry, kids.” Max corrects himself with a roll of his eyes.

David looks like he wants to say more (probably about the fact that he's  _'fucking'_ starving), but relents and steps over the threshold, his enthusiasm not stunted by even Max's foul mouth. “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

Max stops David in the doorway for the second time. “Whoa there camp man, you're still sporting PJs.”

“Oh,” David looks down at himself, suddenly bashful of ‘I’m  _so_ poplar!’ and the pattern of smiling and waving trees on his pants. “Right. I'll go get changed, uh, you can come in if you want. You'll be staying in Gwen's old room by the way. Oh, and there’s paperwork— just a couple of things you have to sign, like insurance and stuff— but we can go over that later.”

“Gwen's gone?” Max's brows mimic David’s, shooting straight up as he follows him in.

David retreats to his room leaving Max to his own devices in the cabin's main room.  
He'd only been in there a couple of times when he was at camp before, but everything looks relatively the same. Right down to the order of the sparrow totem hanging— by some haphazardly stuck down duct tape— from the wall. And Max evidently does not remember that day as fondly as David does. It was pretty traumatizing. Especially the part where David saw him  _care_ , he remembers with a shudder.

“Yeah, she got a real job.” David's voice carries through the thin walls, a little muffled. Max can still hear the air quotes around  _‘real job’_  in his tone, obviously decidedly unhappy that she hadn't considered the job of camp co-counsellor one. Conversely, he didn’t either. But he choose to keep that information to himself because this job is his last hope.

“Mm...” Max hums as he walks over to the desk under the window. She had been looking for one when he was at camp, but with the amount of rejection letters she had stocked up in the desk draws he never really thought her dream would come to fruition.

“I'm glad for her though, I think being in camp with all the screaming kids and cooped up in the cabin were starting to make her a little stir-crazy.”

“A little? She was having a break down every other week when we were at camp. ‘Why did I get a liberal arts degree?’” Max imitates her voice, badly. It earns him a small laugh from David.

At the desk, there's a pin board. Smack bang in the middle is the group photo David forced on everyone at the end of camp. He kept it, even when the threatened not to if Max flipped the camera off every single time he tried to take a photo.

“You had your fingers up in every single photo.” David sighs as he comes alongside Max, fully clothed in the usual Camp Campbell attire (Now Max really does feel like he’s stepped into the past). He doesn't sound upset, rather, amused. “And I mean  _every_  one. Do you know how many I took trying to catch you unaware? It was  _at least_  a hundred.”

“Oh please I was the least of your problems,” Max scoffs. Everyone in the photo was rowdy, but there were a few stand-outs besides him. “Nerf wedgied Space Kid so hard he could have been flung to the moon by his waistband. And Neil is making gang signs.”

David squints at photograph-Neil’s tiny hands, a look of realisation coming over him. “ _Oh my god_ , is that what he's doing?”

“Of course it is, we were a bunch of little assholes.”

“But,” David counters matter-of-factly. “You were my favourite bunch of little a-holes.”

“Only you would say that… Just as well you were there, I don't think anyone else would have put up with our shi— er—” Max corrects himself when he's given a look. “Hijinks.”

“Yeah, guess so.” David hums noncommittally, eyeballing the little (mostly) smiling faces in the picture. “...I wonder how everyone's doing.”

“Dunno... I didn't really keep in touch after...” After he was whisked away from camp at the end of the summer without time for as much as a proper goodbye, bundled into the car, sworn at, and cuffed over the ear for making his parents waste their time picking him up.

“Yeah...” David answers quietly, looking down at his feet, dejected.  
The end of summer hadn’t really been a happy time for any of them. Max supposes that applied to Gwen and David too, who had to watch all the kids leave one by one with their respective dysfunctional messes of families. And it must have been hard watching kids like Nerf go with child services, without any idea where they would end up.

Max is running his mouth before he can think better of it, because David looks like a kicked puppy and it’s absolutely pitiful.  
“I ran into Nikki.” He says, if only for some consolation for David that not absolutely everyone from camp dropped off the grid. It’s not one hundred percent a lie, but he selectively omits the part where ‘ran into’ means ‘she found me bleeding out in an alley after I got the shit beat out of me by my suppliers goons’. Of course, he immediately regrets saying anything at all when David asks:

“Really? How is she?” and he doesn’t look like he’ll just drop this if Max just shrugs and brushes it off.

“She’s uh…” He fumbles for words.  _Working at a strip club after her mum got them evicted then ran off with another one of her conquests and what little money they had left._ Yeah right, David would shit twice and die. “She’s good.”

David looks a little suspicious at the brevity and hesitance of his reply, but Max clams up before he can put his foot in it even more. He’s not about to spill everything in a tell-all exclusive and drag Nikki down with him, though he can see David wanting to ask:  _what happened after camp?_ Max gives him an icy look:  _just don’t_. And David’s lips work soundlessly like a goldfish blowing bubbles when he can't quite form any words in reply. Max distracts him (hopes he does) with a declaration of his immense need for coffee.  _Right_   _now._

“Um, yeah, right— I forgot.” David looks taken aback at the sudden change of pace in their dynamic. But, mercifully, he stops scrutinizing every expression that flickers over Max’s face. “Yeah, we should go.”

“Let's.” Max agrees gratefully.

The walk to the mess hall is saturated with an uncomfortable silence that Max isn't willing to break. So he fixates his attention on the surroundings, noticing that some of the kid’s cabin lights were on now, and if he strains his ears hard enough he can hear the voices carrying over the quiet. It must be nearly nine now, because they talked for a whole lot longer than Max had planned on (Thinking it’d be along the lines of David taking one look at him on his doorstep and deciding ‘Oh  _heck_  no.’) Here he is, surprising himself again, walking to the mess hall.  
He walks a little behind David though he knows the way and when they arrive allows David to do the honours of pulling the door open. In his experience it is always better to have a human shield at hand when one dares to enter the mess hall. And he isn’t disappointed.

“—Hey! Give it back before I sic Michael on you!”

A glob of what is unmistakably the Quartermaster’s mash potatoes sails past and lands on the wall near Max’s head with a wet splat.  _Mash potato for breakfast?_

“Try me, bitch!” A larger kid is holding a  _tail_  out of the reach of the one who is going to ‘sic Michael’ on him. Max hopes ‘sic Michael on you’ kid isn’t talking about himself in third person, because that’s a whole other basket of crazy (as opposed to the tail) that he does not want to deal with.

“Language!” David interjects, to little effect because the large kid continues to jeer.

“Other-kin fag!”

“ _HEY!_ ”

“Maybe you should give it back, Zeshan...” a third child chimes in.

“Shut it Wing-nut, unless your graphic calculator wants to go for a little dip in the lake!” ‘Try me, bitch’ kid (who Max guesses is ‘Zeshan’) yells at the new-comer. ‘Wing-nut’ flinches and goes pale, deciding that his mash potato is suddenly a whole lot more interesting than the fight between ‘sic Michael on you’ kid and Zeshan.

“Zeshan you give Teddy his tail back this instant!” David tries again. He looks helplessly at Max, and all Max knows is this is definitely why no one had taken the job yet. And that it’s a miracle David survived at all without the help of a second person.

“Alright…” Max sighs. He’s been hired as camp co-counsellor now and David looks at his wits end, so he guesses he better do something. “Alright!” He yells now, claps his hands and feels like a grade school teacher. “I think it’s time to shut the fuck up and pay attention to Davey!”

“Max  _language_ —” David starts to say beside him.

“Who the hell are you?” Zeshan demands over the top of all the voices. The other two boys quiet and look at Max expectantly as well, all of them momentarily forgetting about the whole tail debacle.

“The new camp counsellor. And I’m not going to take your shit laying down like this one,” Max jerks his head towards David, who looks indignant but doesn’t protest the fact. “So give the furry his tail back, apologise, and sit the fuck down. And apologize to David for talking over him.”

A split second staring contest ensures before Zeshan looks away from the hard lines of Max’s frown and drops the tail at Teddy’s feet “Ugh, whatever.” He goes to brood at the corner table.

“Sorry David.” Teddy and ‘Wing-nut’ chorus, also returning to their table where a stuffed lion sits in wait.

David breathes out beside him and he sounds a little tired. Max wonders if ten years of camp shenanigans is finally catching up to him. He turns his head a little, looking at David from the corner of his eye. He does  _look_ tired. But the small creases between his brows melt away when he turns fully to Max and smiles gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” Max shrugs and, because he knows how David feels about the swearing, also says “Sorry about the swearing, old habits ya know?”

“Well as long as you’re sorry.” David still smiles—  _Does he ever not?—_ and bumps Max’s shoulder with his. “Coffee time right? We better hurry before the rest of the kids get here and you have to face them without a caffeine high. Come on, I’ll show you where the coffee machine is.”

“You have a coffee machine?” He’s not going to lie, he’s a little excited by the prospect. If only because coffee machines are epitome of luxury and he’s never had that in his life. David talks as they cross the mess hall and make their way to the ‘staff only’ kitchen door.

“Gwen bought it a couple of years ago. She said cheaper than running into town every five minutes for a barista made coffee. Then I made the mistake of asking why she didn’t just drink instant coffee and I swear she didn’t stop talking about how instant coffee tasted like dirt and the fact that only peasants drink it for the next twenty minutes— she kept calling it ‘ _commoner’s coffee_ ’, and then she started talking about anime. So I let her buy one if only to get her to stop talking. _Then_ —” David’s long-winded story continues for several minutes, with no definite beginning, middle or end, or any point at all— like most of the stories he told when Max used to be a camper. Max only half listens as he’s let into the kitchen where the Quartermaster is leaning over a pot of god knows what and muttering to himself, either not seeing them come in or electing to ignore them. Most likely the latter.

“What?” Max looks up to a poke on his shoulder. “Oh, sorry I spaced out a little.”

“Yeah, I was babbling.” David smiles, then turns his attention to the coffee machine. “Just the important parts this time, scouts honour. This button grinds the beans and then all you really have to do is stick your cup under here, press that other one and it’ll do the rest. Pretty nifty right?”

Max sniggers. “Sorry, no. You did  _not_ just call it  _nifty_.”

“What? What’s wrong with nifty?” David blinks, confused.

“You sound like an old man.”

“Hey! Nifty is a word that people say!” he protests defensively, though he sounds less and less sure of himself as each word passes his lips. “Sometimes.”

“Yeah, if they’re eighty.”

“Shut up and make your dang coffee.” David shoves a mug into his hands.

“You got it, grandpa Davey.”

The silence between them is a new kind, a comfortable kind. In which Max catches David’s eye while he waits for the whirring of the coffee machine to stop and quirks a little smile, and David returns it.  _I like this kind of silence,_ Max decides.  
They return to the mess hall, cups of coffee in tow (tempted by the smell of Max’s hot beverage, David had decided to make himself one) to find it marginally fuller than when they left it. And a hell of a lot louder.

“Looks like almost everyone’s here.” David comments. Max follows him to an empty table and sits down, for lack of any idea what else he should be doing. He sips at his coffee and watches the room over the rim of his mug.  
Aside from tail-kid, calculator-kid and mister brooding-in-the-corner, there’s four new faces, all of which he is not likely to forget any time soon. They’re definitely Camp Campbell brand of special little snowflakes.

Sitting on the furry’s and calculator-kid’s table, a boy dressed like mime ( _like, the kid went face paint and all_ ) deep in— Max wants to say conversation, but he’s not sure he can really call it that. He’s deep in  _something_  with a boy in a fedora, who can apparently interpret the hand gestures and facial expressions well enough to hold a discussion with him. Then there’s the ‘edgy teen’, eyeliner so thick she almost looks like the mime kid. She’s mimicking Zeshan and brooding in the opposite of the corner of the room (though probably for a very different reason), a pair of black earbuds are jammed in her ears with the music blaring so loudly that Max swears he can hear it from where he’s sitting. She pokes the mash potatoes to the tune of her song with a bored expression. And last of all, sitting beside the raccoon-eyed edge lord…

“I see we have another Space Kid.” Max says around a mouthful of hot coffee, nodding his head in the direction of the girl with a fishbowl on her head. She’s made a lot of other questionable fashion choices, like a backpack with a shower hose sticking out of it, but it’s mostly the fishbowl that catches his attention. David follows his eyes.

“Actually, Scarlett-Rose is Scuba Kid.”

“Of course she is.” He answers into his coffee cup, which isn’t nearly big enough for the shit he  _knows_  he’s going to have to deal with today (and the rest of the summer, now he’s been hired). Max silently hopes he isn’t opening a new can of worms when he asks: “So who’re the rest if this is  _almost_ everyone?”

“Andreea and Areebah— they’re identical twins, and lovely little girls! Oh look here they are now— good morning girls!” The doors open, and the look David received from the twins as they walked in is utterly vicious; practically the definition of glaring daggers. Their electric blue eyes are as cold as ice and everyone in the room seems wary of them, even Zeshan, as they go to sit at a table with eerie synchronization.

“ _Charming_.” Max quips sarcastically. He watches the girls exchange a look with each other over their mash potatoes. Something unspoken passing between them, like they were having a conversation without the words (And not in the way the Mime Kid was. This was so much darn creepier.)

“They don’t talk much.”

“You don’t say?”

“Well,” David drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug down. “Now that everyone’s here we can introduce you properly.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary—” Max starts to protest, but David is already brushing himself off and standing.

“Everyone can I have your attention please! I’d like to introduce our newest co-counsellor, give a warm welcome to Max.” He’s the only one clapping, which makes Max want to crawl under the table and die.

When David turns to him expectantly Max realises with a start that he’s supposed to actually say something to the kids. He half turns in his seat, too embarrassed to stand up and talks over his coffee mug. “Uhh… S’up?”

“S’up indeed!” David slaps him on the back and he coughs. “Just because Max is new, doesn’t mean you should treat him any different than you treat me.” (Max half expects one of the kids to do a Nikki and fling a dirt patty from one of their pockets at him. Thankfully they all seem like they couldn’t give less of a shit.)

They’re about to turn back to their ‘food’ but David keeps talking: “Also,” A collective groan goes up around the room, which David ignores. “Today’s morning activity is archery! So make sure you eat up Quartermasters delicious potatoes that he prepared with love for you—”

“S’not  _love_  in them potatoes Davey.” The Quartermaster mumbles behind them. And Max is quietly glad for his liquid breakfast rather than the Quartermaster’s concoction.

“—you’re going to need lots of energy to conquer the fun day ahead!”

“Archery, really?” Max asks David when he sits back down.

“Yup! It’s going to be great!” He seems genuinely zazzed, obviously he didn’t think kids and sharp things through very well.

“I’m going to need a  _lot_ more coffee.”

“All right everyone! Let’s head over to the activities field!” David is already ushering kids out the door when Max comes back with his second cup of coffee. He drains it, feeling the rush of caffeine hit him, and follows the mass of grumbling kids with his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket and his feet dragging. Just like old times.

* * *

_It’s only archery,_  he tries to reassure himself. They’re at the field already and David is handing around equipment and attempting to get the kids in some sort of line.  _Only a group of children with sharp projectiles. This is fine. This is definitely fine._

It stops being fine about ten minutes later.

“Oh no, it’s a trap! The keeper of the temple has laid a cursed arrow in wait for me!”

He’s chasing after Fedora kid: who David had described as (moments before everything went to shit in the space of a couple seconds) is a self-proclaimed treasure hunter modelling himself on ‘Indiana Jones’ to the point where he demands that everyone call him ‘Indie’.

“Indie you are not being chased by a cursed arrow! Stop running with it— I  _will not_ be liable for any injury you cause. Our insurance doesn’t cover ‘accidentally impaled myself with an arrow because I was running around like a moron’!” Max yells after him. When his own group of Teddy, Emanuel and Mr. Mime disown him and his antics, and move further up the range, he seeks out other campers to harass.

“Ow— cut it out Indie!” Scuba Kid cries, because he’s using her fishbowl as a shield against his other hand that is holding the arrow. The metal tip clinks as it makes contact with the glass. Then Indie is off and running again.

“Watch out! It rebounded!  _Zhoommmmm—”_

When he tries to use the next person as a human shield, which unfortunately for him just to happens to be the camps resident edge lord, Raccoon-eyes snatches the arrow from his hands and snaps the wooden shaft like a twig. “You come near me with your shit again and it’ll be your arm next. C’mon Scar, let’s go stand over there.” She stalks off and Scuba Kid trots obediently after her.

Well, that solved one of Max’s problems.

“Now, now there’s no need to take anger out on the camp gear!” David cries after them, lifting the arrow out of the dirt as if it were his baby that was dropped not a decidedly pointy stick. Max makes his way over to his co-counsellor.

“…Its simple physics. All I need to do is calculate the trajectory of the arrow, taking into account elements like wind speed and the elasticity of the bow string and, theoretically, I should hit the centre of the target,” ‘Wing-nut’ is telling Mime Kid as Max walks past the two, sounding very like Neil with all his math-talk and ‘physics’, though Mime Kid doesn’t look particularly interested.

“So I know Indie’s deal, but do these other kids have actual names? Or are we going to do the stupid nickname thing again?” He asks David, coming to stand beside him while they supervise the kids (Most of whom aren’t actually doing archery, because they’ve been distracted by one thing or another. Max supposes this is just as well, since he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head. He has a newfound respect for camp counsellors and the shit they have to put up with.)

“You’re right, where are my manners? I was so busy introducing you to them and getting the activity sorted that I didn’t finish introducing them to you,” One by one David starts to point kids out. “You already know Indie— his actual name is James, but you didn’t hear that from me, he hates it when people call him that. And you know Zeshan.”

“Sadly.”

Next, his finger lands on ‘Wing-nut’ and Mime Kid. “That’s Emanuel… and since Mr. Mime doesn’t talk we just call him that— like the  _Pokémon_. Indie came up with that one. The girl that Scarlett-Rose hangs around with is Avi.”

_Fishbowl and Edgy Teen,_  Max watches the girls talk at the edge of the group,  _they’re an interesting combination._

“You know the twins as well—”

“How could I forget? They’ve been giving me side eye all morning.” He puts in dryly. David makes a face like ‘yeah’, and keeps talking.

“—and the other boy from this morning with the tail is Teddy. He also speaks for his stuffed lion, Michael. Yep that’s everyone.” He looks around the camp with his hands on his hips like a proud mother. Though Max doesn’t know what part of nine out of control children that aren’t his makes him proud. Especially when Zeshan starts loosing arrows when kids are still walking across the makeshift shooting range to retrieve their latest shots.

Max drags his hands down his face. It’s only ten in the morning, and he already regrets his career choice. Immensely. “Zeshan I swear to  _God_ —”

David pats Max’s shoulder, apparently sensing how utterly done he is. “I’ll take this one, you’ve already chased Indie halfway around the camp.”

“Thanks.” Max decides that he doesn’t actually regret it all that much as he watches David sashaying away.

“M-Max?”

“Huh— what?” He looks around stupidly, trying to pretend like he wasn’t just been staring longingly after David’s ass. The furry—  _what was his name? Teddy?_  Is holding the corner of his shirt with one worse for wear looking lion tucked under his arm. It reminds him of Mr. Honey Nuts. “What d’ya want kid?”

Teddy sniffles, lifting the lion to show Max a tear in its leg where some stuffing was poking out. “Zeshan  _shot_  Michael and now he’s—”

“ _Fuck_ , don’t start with the waterworks.” Max panics when the kid’s eyes start to tear up. He’s never been good with kids, especially not crying kids. “Uh. Shit— okay come on. Let’s get your lion friend patched up. There’s no need to cry, this is fixable.”  _Not that I know how to sew, or even if there’s sewing supplies at camp._  Max looks around, desperate to sub David in again but he’s still chewing out Zeshan. Unfortunately, it looks like this is his problem.

“He’s—  _he’s—_ ” Teddy is blubbering.

Max sits Teddy down in the grass on the rise of a small hill, assuring him again, “We can fix this, sit tight,” then jogs off to the counsellors’ cabin (He needs to do  _something_ before Teddy’s tears evolve into a full-blown tantrum with screaming and everything— because that’s how it always ends with kids) to rummage around for some bandages, plasters, anything. 

Once, he fixed Mr. Honey Nuts with ingenuity and an old sock. He remembers it quite vividly, though he was still a child when it happened. The neighbourhood bullies had almost ripped an arm clean off his bear (Which was nothing, compared to when they ripped into him.) He didn’t tell anyone. Even though he was young he still knew better than to mention the bear (Or the bullies) to his parents. His mother didn’t need that burden and it wouldn’t have gone down especially well with his step-father. Most things hadn’t gone down well with his step-father.

Max finds a bandage in one of the desk drawers. It’s a little unclean, but not noticeably so.  _It’ll do._  He shuts the cabin’s screen door behind him and briskly descends the stairs, making his way back to Teddy, who is still palming his teary eyes and sniffing.

“Alright kid, hand over the lion.” Teddy obediently hands Michael over, watching intently as Max pushes the stuffing back in and starts to wind the bandage over its leg. He winds it tightly, so there’s no chance of it slipping off before the leg can be properly sewn up, and ties it off, dropping the lion back into Teddy’s lap. “We’ll get it fixed properly later, but that’ll do for now.”

“Thank you Max!”

Max tenses when the kid  _hugs him_  around the legs. He is getting a lot more hugs today then he would like to and the prolonged human contact is making him vaguely uncomfortable. He shrugs Teddy off. “Welcome. Now fuck off and get on with the camp activities.”

“Okay!” newfound happiness unperturbed by Max’s callous words, Teddy runs off to join Mr. Mime and Emanuel at the start of the range. Emanuel is still talking, probably still about his calculations, but now there’s two kids and a stuffed lion looking disinterested with him instead of just one kid. And the rest of the kids are doing their own things. Zeshan has stopped trying to hit other campers.  
Max breathes out and sits in the grass, allowing himself a moments rest, however brief, from the insanity of the morning.

He starts at a hand on his head and looks up to find David. “That was nice, what you did for Teddy. Thank you.”

Max slaps his hand away and shrugs. He’s also getting thanked a lot more than he would like. “It’s the job. Don’t thank me.”

“Still,” David insists. Max grunts.

The rest of the morning passes shockingly without many more incidents (This group of kids is so far notably less crazy than Max’s camp peers had been during his summer stint at Camp Campbell. But not so much so that he was spared a headache.)  
Everyone is glad to retire for lunch when David calls it. Max supplements his meals with caffeine again when the Quartermaster serves mash potatoes for the second time in the same day. And in the wake of the failure of his planned archery activities that no one really joined in on, David decides to let the campers have free time for the rest of the afternoon to ‘bond with the QM’ while he drags Max along to fill out those papers he was talking about this morning.

Max looks sceptically at David. “Are you sure leaving them to their own devices is a good idea?” He isn’t particularly thrilled about the prospect of paperwork. He’s even less thrilled about leaving the kids unattended, which could go wrong is  _so_ many ways.

“Of course it is!” He responds without hesitation, always the optimist.

“This feels like déjà vu…” Max grumbles. Just like nine o’clock this morning when David said archery was a good idea. He’s one hundred percent positive  _something_ will happen, and he should know— he was the instigator of the riot when David dared leave their camp group unattended. And Max did not fancy being tied to the flag pole upside down.  _At all._

“They can’t prove they’re responsible if they’re never given any responsibility.”

“That is a bad philosophy to have on a group of ten year olds no matter which way you look at it.”

“Don’t worry,” David waves him off, “The Quartermaster is keeping an eye on them.”

Max sighs, relenting. Arguing with David is a pointless endeavour because he’s as stubborn as he is optimistic. David’s legs are long and he runs a little to catch up with him. “Don’t come crying to me when this goes to shit. You remember what we did to the Quartermaster when you left us alone with him, right?”


	2. Archery pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten: 20/07/2018
> 
> Note: to all those who have read chapter two, I suggest rereading it as I have changed quite a bit and the following chapters might not make as much sense. However chapter one hasn't changed much. Thanks all! xx

“Damn kids,” The Quartermaster’s voice is muffled through his beard. “Lucky I got my hands tied or I’d backhand you so hard a pimp would be jealous.”

Teddy bears his teeth and growls until the quartermaster stops struggling, but he’s still talking through his facial hair, and Emanuel swears he hears the Quartermaster mumbling: _‘…the uprising is upon us.’_  
Teddy looks at Indie. “What’s a pimp?”

“It’s when you put animal print seat covers and fuzzy dice in your car.” Indie’s voice is loud and echoes in the now empty mess hall. Everyone else had filed our after the tying of the Quartermaster. Except for the twins who went before, getting away as if they’re invisible in the eyes of everyone else at the camp like always.  
Emanuel doesn’t like how they’re able to do as they please without suspicion falling on them, and that sometimes things just don’t add up (because he’s a man of _science._ And there’s a reasonable explanation for _everything, god damn it.)_

“No that’s  _pimp my ride_.” Emanuel says, nodding his head at Teddy (While internally, his brain is preoccupied with the fact that today’s they day they’ll find out what said reasonable explanation is.) “I think the Pimp is like The Tax Man, because my mum always complains about The Pimp taking a cut of her hard earned money, even though he did none of the customers.”

“You mean none of the work—” Indie starts to correct him, but is cut off by Teddy questioning again:

“ _Wait_ — what’s The _Tax Man_?”

“The Tax Man is—”

Mr. Mime stamps his foot on the floor to gain the attention of the group. When Emanuel looks, stopping mid-sentence to do so, he’s doing some kind of interpretative modern dance. He exchanges a blank look with Teddy over the flapping of arms and grunting of the Quartermaster.  
As long as Mr. Mime has been at camp he hasn’t spoken a word. Luckily, Indie seems able to understand his awful attempt at both dance and communication.

“You’re right, let’s split before we lose them.” Indie answers Mr. Mime’s unspoken words with a solemn nod and hands Teddy a walkie talkie. “They left out the back door when they thought no one was looking— they’re probably going to the woods and it hasn’t been long, they can’t have gone that far. Use these to keep in touch.”

“Where did you get these?” Teddy fiddles with the walkie talkie, static crunching over the speakers when he presses the PTT button and the transmitter dances between on and off. Emanuel takes it off him before he breaks it.

“I took them from the counsellor’s cabin— we should split into groups so we can find them quicker.”

“Okay,” Emanuel says reluctantly. In horror movies, splitting up is always the worst idea. _But we’re at a summer camp,_ he reminds himself, _if anything this is more of a coming-of-age movie._ “Then I’m taking Teddy.” He says, because Indie is too overbearing and Mr. Mime doesn’t talk in any other language than hands.

“That means I’m with Mr. Mime!” Indie seizes him by the forearm. He looks unimpressed by the man-handling. “Okay, team. This might be our only chance to figure out what they’re up too when they sneak off. Mission ‘Bust Andreea and Areebah skipping out on camp’ is a go!”

They all put their hands in and do a little team chant (which had taken an unnecessarily long time to come up with for what it was, by Emanuel’s standards.) And the group, now rallied by Indie’s straight-talking, is ready to move out.

They walk single file to fit through the only one of the two mess hall doors that is open. Emanuel is stepping over the threshold of the door, when Teddy stops and taps Indie on the shoulder ahead of him. He casts his eyes back into the main room of the mess hall and the rest of the group follows his gaze. Emanuel is the last to look back, and feels a spike to worry when he does so. Their prisoner doesn’t look himself.

“W—what’s up with the Quartermaster?” Teddy asks, unsure. No one answers.

The Quartermaster slumps in his chair, head lolling onto his chest, and when he looks up again his expression is vacant. Teddy hides from the empty eyes behind Emanuel. Indie gulps audibly. And Mr. Mime doesn’t flap his arms for once, but his painted face twists into a look of shock.  
When the Quartermaster talks, his voice is harsh and grading and no longer muffled by his beard, and Emanuel tries to cover his ears but his arms are heavy, struck down by a sudden fear, and won’t listen to what he tells them.

“—Disturbing them͏ f͘rom͝ th̨eir̷  ̶u͞nho̴l͘y͞ ̡d͝ut͡y, y̷ou̶̢ ͡͏m̴̷̴u͜͡s̡t̷͞ b̵͠͝e̶̢ re̡͜a͡͝d̸y̡ ̵t͝҉͜o̴̷͢ ̨̢f̕a̴ce ̛̕t̕͜͟h͘e͠ ̵͢c̸͠͡on̶̛s͟͜e̵q҉͟ư҉̴en̛c̡̛e̵͡s̢,̡͜ ̨̧̕”

If it’s still the Quartermaster, he doesn’t sound like the Quartermaster they know.

First, Emanuel wonders if their dear old QM has been _snorting some lines (because_ _people say weird things when they’re fucked up, take it from his mum.)_  
But the Quartermaster’s head tips back with a sickening crack, lolling freely over the backrest of the chair, rolling, coming back up like a drowning man gasping for air, holding his head up again, crookedly. His too-intense eyes train on the group, the heat of being watched piercing Emanuel.  
Then, He’s seen enough crackheads to know that while satanic premonitions aren’t unusual, broken necks aren’t the way this usually goes.  
Emanuel wonders what kind of fresh hell this is.

“I͘͢͜ ̡a͟m͟͝͏ ̶b̶͘͏͟͡u̢̕t̶̡͘͢͝ ̴̛a̶͏ ҉̵h̢̢u̴͘m̸̧҉̵b̸l̢̢͡e̷̛͘͜ ̶̵͡m̵͜ȩ̡͞s̸̢̕͘͝s҉̡͘e̕͡͏̶n͟͏͘͝g̸ę̧͝҉̢r̵҉͟͝ ̵͜d͏͠e̸̷͠͡l̴͘͠į͡v͘e̶̛͘r̸̨͟͞͠i͢͡҉͜n̷͝͡g̴̡̕͟ ̸͢u̴̢̕͡n̢̛t̸͘͞o̶͏҉̡ ̢͡y̶̡͘͘ơ̶͘͡ư ҉̡̧͏̧h̨͘͜i̵͠s͘ ҉̸w̵̨͟͠i̸͟l̷̨͢l̵̴͟͝,̡͢͝ ̴̨҉̕ ͠҉͕̪̞̝̦̕͢ͅͅh͞e̴̸͙̫̗̭̦͈͢͡ͅͅ ͏̢͏̢̢̺̜̬̻̩w̨̞̪̩͔̞i̸̩͢͟͝l͏̢̡͉͡l̷̸̡̥̯̳͇̱͍͘͞ n̛͏̙͞o͔͉̥̗̩̦̕t͝҉͚̘ ̧̡҉̹̼̥͔̞͕͖̕͟b̶̨͕̣̱̫e̡ ̣̼̖̗͚̟̕͟h̨̨͙͎̗̰a̶̷̰̼̯͖̙̞͍̥͜p̢͙͙͜p̵̭̫͞͝y̢̼͚̦͎̟͙̩ͅ ҉̫̙̗̪͎͇ẉ̸̖̝̣͓̜̗̬͜͜͡i̴̩̤̠̭t̵̡͈̣̻̞̤̦͉̕ͅḩ̛͕͔̺̣͢ ͉̘̼̻̕y̰̣̟̖͕͘͝o̸̡̧̡̪̟̺̘̗̦̳u̵̵̧͓̤͝r̵̢̡̯̭̖̱̩̣͚̭̤̜͠ ̶̨̡̹̞͉͓̣̙͠͡i̵̺̺̥̝͟ṇ̵̡̛͝t̶͔̪͕̗̙̙͟͡ę̦͓̬͖̕͢r̶̸̤̩͈̬̹͓͈̗͟͟f̸̵̺͖̜͎̗̕͡e̵̠͎͉̰̼̟r̢̫̦̦̪̪͟ͅe̷̢̲̟͘͜͜n̡̧̥̩̮̭̩͇̱̕͞c҉͇̻͕͓̜̫̹͟͠͠e̝̱̣̠̺͔̞͢͢͠.͏̼͍͍̣̻͙̗”

He feels rooted to the spot in the icy grips of fear, unable to do much else except shake under the stare of the not-Quartermaster, like his soulless eyes are holding him in some kind of spell. The Quartermaster isn’t a crackhead anymore, when even the air feels frozen. And dark, and heavy, and it’s encroaching in on them, and Emanuel’s chest feels tight— he’s something otherworldly, in the worst of ways.

As the thought occurs to Emanuel: that he would rather be dealing with a regular run-of-the-mill crackhead then the Quartermaster’s apparent possession, the Quartermaster jolts up as if he has just woken and burps loudly. The spell breaks.

“That was an interesting possession— tastes like chicken.”

Emanuel takes a deep breath, feeling like he hasn’t been able to do so for a hundred years even though the Quartermaster had started acting demonic only five minutes ago. He can also feel the others breathing around him. It takes a while before anyone can do more than that.

“Uh…” Indie offers. They’re all staring blankly at the Quartermaster, in shock, perhaps— Emanuel knows he is.

“What are you darn kids looking at?” The Quartermaster wads up a ball of saliva in his mouth and spits blood. He seems to be aware of the implications of what happened, just not that concerned. _Maybe using fear was his way of keeping them from running amuck_ , Emanuel thinks, because there’s lots of instances where scare tactics are employed _(Or he’s a hard-core crackhead)_ and when he suggests this to the group, they seem inclined to agree.

“N-nothing!” Teddy exclaims.

“C’mon guys.” They don’t linger in the mess hall. Indie waves them all out the door and Emanuel doesn’t look back.

* * *

“Max?” David clicks his fingers in front of Max’s face, the latter startling back to reality.

“Huh? Oh, Sorry—” Max makes a face. He feels a little light headed as he forces his eyes focus, fixating on David’s face. “I just got a weird feeling.”

David looks concerned. “Are you sick? Should I get you a bucket?”

 “No, not like I’m going to throw up or anything, just. I don’t know, _weird._ ” He shakes his head to clear the fog, mouth twisting and shoulders tensing a little as the sudden movement is accompanied by an icy pang of something sharp. Max shivers involuntarily.

“Oh. Are you cold? I can turn the heater on.”

As quick as it came, it’s gone, and Max shakes his head again, a little smile coming too his lips. _David’s worried._ “It’s okay now, forget I said anything. Let’s just get on with this paperwork before I take my eyes out with this pen— I swear if I have to read another fucking list of terms and conditions…”

“Well, if you say so.” David reluctantly agrees. He pushes another slip of paper across the desk. “We’re nearly done— scouts honour. Sign here, please.”

* * *

“We’ve still got nothing, but Teddy is trying to sniff them out. _Over._ ” The walkie talkie crackles when Emanuel releases the PTT button. Teddy is walking a bit ahead of him with his nose tipped to the air and Michael held in front of him like he’s dowsing for water. They’re trying to be quiet, but the dead leaves littering the forest floor keep crunching underfoot.

The Quartermaster’s _other-worldly fit_ (for lack of a better descriptor) still lingers in the back of his mind. Though it pales in comparison to his new fear of; _what if we do find the twins, in the middle of whatever the QM was talking about?_

“Nothing here either. _Over._ ” Indie’s voice is still loud, even when it’s muffled by the fuzzy sounds the walkie talkie is making.  
Emanuel forces the walkie talkie back into his pants pocket, antenna still for ease of contact, and follows Teddy off the beaten track, looking nervously over his shoulder at every sound in the distance. He’s not above admitting to his fear. It’s there _for a reason._ But admitting it to other people— he can hear Indie’s mocking voice from last time: _C’mon guys let’s go. Wing-nut can keep himself company if going on a monster hunt is too scary._ So he keeps his mouth shut even though leaving the path isn’t a good idea.

“ _Ghuahh_!”

“What— what?” Emanuel yells frantically to Teddy’s gasp. He looks to see Teddy bounding away and hastens to catch up, unwilling to be left alone in the forest. Especially if Teddy has found something. _Or someone._ He catches up with Teddy who is standing stock still and looking into the trees now. Emanuel lowers his voice just in case Teddy did find someone. “What is it?”

“Squirrel.” Teddy declares, looking very self-satisfied (Even Michael looks fluffed up importantly.) “But don’t worry— I scared it off.”

Suddenly angry for the way Teddy made his heart jump into his throat, “What the _frick!_ Teddy! We have to be _fricking_ _quiet!_ ” Emanuel hisses, casting a shifty glance around as if he expects someone else to be listening in on them.

“Oh sorry.” Teddy lowers his voice to match Emanuel’s. His expression lowers, too.

They don’t talk much more they start trekking through the undergrowth again. Teddy still walks ahead of him, leaving Emanuel to wonder if he was a bit too harsh throwing around all those ‘fricks’ and if he should apologise or not. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t get a chance because the walkie talkie is live again. Emanuel yanks it out of his pocket and listens eagerly.

“You there? We found them…” Indie’s voice is quieter this time, like he’s whispering close to the speaker. Every syllable sounds like pop-rocks in his mouth.

Emanuel waves Teddy over (the sort-of fight, or _whatever_ it was, forgotten) and they squat at the trunk of a tree, hunched over the walkie talkie, listening intently. Emanuel waits to see if there’s more (Indie is supposed to say ‘over’ when he’s finished speaking)— there’s only the sound of static— before pressing the PTT button.

“We’re here. Over.”

He can hear Indie shuffling around, like he’s crawling in the bushes. There’s other noises in the background too, noises that are distinctly _not_ Indie and Mr. Mime beating through bushes. “Hang on we’re going to get a closer look. Over.”

Emanuel holds the PTT button. “A closer looks of what? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know—” Indie talks brokenly between shuffling around his hiding spot. “I— they’re sitting on the ground in a star drawn in the dirt—”

_Pause._

“—and they’re saying something, hang on.”

Emanuel feels sick in the empty noise that follows, gripping the walkie talkie so hard his fingers turn white. He tries to speak again, but Indie must still be holding down his PTT button. He can hear a faint murmuring in the background and then louder, but still in the distance, like he’s not even talking into the walkie talkie anymore, Indie speaks again.

“What the fuck? Are they even speaking English? — _Shit!_ Did they see us?”

“Indie quit joking around this isn’t funny.” Emanuel snaps into the speaker, unsure if Indie even hears him or is still holding down his PTT button.

The walkie talkie is silent again. He and Teddy lean in, on the edge of their metaphorical seats as they wait for the reply. In hindsight, Emanuel should have expected the reply they get, considering the _other-worldly fit_ incident of two-fifteen pm that afternoon and the sheer breathy panic in Indie’s voice.

_“F̡̻̫̳͘͜O̶̢͖̬̱͔̲͠U͎̰̭͖̖̥͡N͚̰̻̭̬̕ͅͅD̸̳͕̗̼̩̣̻̕ ̵̛̬̩̭͓̱̯̱͎̹Y̨̡̡͚̩̣̰ͅO̴͙̗̭̗U͙̱͎̩̱͈̩̰͞͝͞.̡̟͇̺͘”_

All things considered, he still drops the walkie talkie like it’s venomous.

He and Teddy exchange wild-eyed looks. In his head, the situation has upgraded from denial about Camp Campbell being a horror movie to ‘ _we’re all going to die: this is not a drill_.’ It’s like when they went monster hunting last week, only _so_ much worse. He’s not crouched in the bushes watching a pile of pudding cups festering in the hot midday sun and waiting for a monster that doesn’t exist to come and eat them.

“They’re probably pranking us.” Emanuel says, but his words don’t convince anyone, not even himself. Teddy grips his forearm tightly in one hand, his other twisting into Michael’s faux fur. He eye-balls the now silent walkie talkie.

“Do you think?” He whispers back, tentatively reaching out for the walkie talkie. Emanuel sits in rapt silence as Teddy holds the PTT button and asks over the walkie talkie, “Guys are you there?”

When there’s no answer, Emanuel takes the walkie talkie off Teddy and talks directly into it, trying to sound firm. “Come on, the jokes not funny anymore. It wasn’t even funny in the first place. Hurry up and tell us what you actually see— otherwise what’s the point of having walkie talkies anyway?”

The silence is deafening.

“Should we look for them? Are they okay?” Teddy is a little frantic, and clutching Michael to his chest like a toddler.

Emanuel shakes his head. “There’ no way we’ll be able to find them. Do you know how big this forest is? It’d be better to go and find David and Max and tell them what happened.” However unpleasant the scolding may be ( _Face the consequences_ ; apparently the Quartermaster can tell the future.)

“I guess.” Teddy reluctantly agrees, casting one last worried glance at the walkie talkie. “But shouldn’t we at least try… I don’t want to get in trouble… and if we don’t find them after a little then we can go and get Max and David, right?”

“Alright, _alright_.” Emanuel stands. “This was your idea, so which way should we go?”

Teddy thinks about it, with a loud and lengthy “Uhh… Well they went in the same direction as us, just a bit further down so we should run into them if we go this way right?”

“Makes sense.” Emanuel shrugs after the direction Teddy points, but he’s more jumpy than ever now. And almost dies of a heart attack right then and there when, before he can start bush-bashing again, Teddy lays a hand on his shoulder from behind. Footsteps shuffle.

“W-wait.” It’s light and timid, and his fingers are shaking. He holds fast to Emanuel’s shirt and Emanuel can hear him swallowing thickly. There’s a lot of things going on today that science would have a hard time explaining, and he isn’t liking this latest edition to the list. Especially when Teddy lifts his nose and sniffs the air like a bloodhound.  
That in itself normally wouldn’t be very unsettling— just a quirk of Teddy’s as an Other-kin— but when coupled with a whispered: “something smells wrong,” It sets Emanuel on edge. He can feel every muscle in his body pulsing with nervous energy. He wouldn’t be surprised if all the stress of the day gave him grey hairs at just eleven years of age.

Teddy muffles a gasp in Michael’s fur as something rustles the bushes and his hand on Emanuel’s shoulder tightens. Emanuel is struck once again, by his inability to function in high-pressure situations. He wants to slap some sense into himself but he can’t so much as twitch a finger while is brain is screaming ‘ _whatever got Indie and Mr. Mime is going to get us’_ and his eyes are glued to the underbrush.

“What should we do?” Teddy’s squeaky voice comes to him through the fog of the panic and grounds him just enough that his instincts kick in and his body prepares itself to haul ass.

“Run.” He whispers back.

Teddy’s grip shifts from his shoulder to his wrist, and he holds tight as they leg it, ignoring the twigs lashing at their faces. Emanuel pumps his legs like he never has before and probably never will again. They both do, spurred on by the piercing grunts of whatever it is behind them. Even as they break out of the tree line they don’t stop— won’t stop until there’s a solid four walls and a door between them and their pursuer.  
Emanuel drags Teddy into the closest building and they slam the door after them. He hopes that would be enough to stop or at the very least hinder their pursuer. Indie and Mr. Mime are already gone. All they can do now is survive.

* * *

“Okay, well that just about does it.” David places his pen back into the pen cup and shuffles the papers into a neat-ish pile to be packed away in the filing cabinets with all the other ‘official’ camp records.

“Thank  _fucking_  Christ. I think my hand is going to fall off.” Max throws his pen down onto the desk and slumps gratefully back into his seat. David locks the draw with a little silver key, clapping Max on the shoulder as he stands. Max tries and fails to lean away from his hand.

“Congratulations Max, you’re officially a Camp Campbell co-counsellor.”

“Oh, the joy.” Max responds wryly. He also stands, stretching his arms. The satisfying pop of joints makes David visibly wince. Then he ruefully says, “We better get back to the kids. It’s been suspiciously quiet, and if I learnt anything from camp it’s that suspiciously quiet is  _not_  a good sign.”

“Maybe they’re enjoying a quiet game of cards with the quartermaster?” David suggests hopefully as he follows Max out of the Cabin.

 _“_ Right, and I’m a monkeys fucking uncle.” Max holds the door open for him.

“ _Language_.” David shuts and locks it behind them.

As they walk, Max grins impishly, the childish urge to provoke David coming over him. He isn’t loud enough that anyone other than David can hear him, because he doesn’t walk to make David _mad-_ mad (He is technically Max’s boss now and could fire him if he did get _really_ mad) _,_ he just wants to take the piss. “Fucking fuck, fuck, and fuck. Fuckity-fuck. _Fuck._ ”

“There’s no hope for you.” But David is smiling fondly. Max’s stomach does a queasy little flip at the sight of his smile, a different kind of _weird feeling_ coming over him.

He looks away as his face reddens, muttering, “Says the thirty year old man still working at a kids’ summer camp.”

“You’re working here too, now.” David points out.

With no comeback for that, Max puffs up his cheeks and walks headed. “Piss off.” He shoots back at David.

David laughs again, still too happy ( _some things never change_ , Max muses.)

Other things do change. Specifically, the illusion that David (and he, however unwittingly) had been under— that the suspicious silence of the campers wasn’t _that_ bad and the Quartermaster would be able to maintain at least some semblance of control over the kids for the bit-over-an-hour he had to watch them for— because the closer they get to the mess hall, the more evident it becomes that David’s hopes of nine kids and one pirate-looking Quartermaster will be shattered.  
First there’s distant thumping. Then, as the mess hall emerges from between trees, there’s voices to accompany the thumping. Loud voices, panicked and cursing. And hissing.

Wordlessly, both David and Max quicken their stride.

Max doesn’t bat an eyelid when they pull open the doors and find the Quartermaster tied to a chair, talking to himself, and two of the campers standing on a table top attempting to fight off the camp mascot with brooms.

“ _AHHH_!”

“Hit it!”

“I’m trying!”

Teddy and Emanuel hop from foot to foot, yelling, and swinging the brooms with poor aim that proves to be the source of the thumping when they miss and the wooden handles knock the edges of the tables. The platypus has propped itself up on its back legs and tail, hissing at them.  
Max sighs, walking over to lift the platypus by the tail, holding it away from his body so its legs flap uselessly in mid-air. Emanuel and Teddy are still on the table, yelling and carrying on, but at least the godawful banging has stopped.

“I’m not going to say I told you so.  _But._  I did  _fucking_  tell you so.” he says to David, sliding open one of the windows and tossing the platypus casually, as if throwing a platypus out the window was an everyday occurrence. Max knows it won’t be the last time, and that even more ridiculous things are bound to happen. _This is Camp Campbell, after all,_ he reminds himself, _I shouldn’t expect anything less than shit like this._ It lands with a _Muack_ and hisses indignantly at him before scurrying into the forest.  
David is still for a while, still taking in the scene, before running over to the Quartermaster.

“Quartermaster I am  _so_  sorry.”

The Quartermaster shrugs indifferently as he is untied. At least, Max thinks its indifference— his expression is hard to read under all the facial hair. “Didn’t even have ropes back in ‘Nam, we had to use…” The Quartermaster shuffles into the kitchen, voice trailing off. Max is quietly glad that whatever was used back in ‘Nam is lost with the Quartermaster.

He turns back to the boys (they’re in a state, covered in vegetation and dirt. Emanuel’s neat bowl-cut hairstyle sticks up in various directions, Teddy’s tail hangs limp and ratty from where it’s tucked into the waistband of his shorts and Michael is a far cry from the bright yellow-orange colour it used to be) who are now trying to inconspicuously slide off the table and slither out the mess hall. “Whoa, there shitheads. Where the fu—” he’s conscious of David standing behind him “— _heck_ do you think you’re going?”

“Uh…” Teddy starts, shuffling guiltily in the wake of the muddy footprints they trekked into the mess hall. He glances at his accomplice.

“To… our cabin?” Emanuel answers for the both of them, a questioning lilt to his voice. He seems unsure, and Max pounces on his indecision, hands on his hips, putting on his _‘taking no shit’_ voice.

“Nuh-uh. None of you are going anywhere until you clean the shit you traipsed in here up and apologise to the Quartermaster. And _then_ , you’re going to shower.” He looks at David.  _Back me up, here Davey._

“That’s right, young men. You are in a world of trouble. You’ve made your beds now it is indeed time to lie in them.” David scolds, waggling his finger. His attempt at telling the boys off is laughable but Max supposes he tried and that’s what matters.

The boys look dejected as David is partway through putting them and the brooms they weaponized to use when Max realizes, “Wait. Where is everyone else?” In his defence, he’d been too busy throwing platypuses out the window to notice much else, until now.

“I dunno.” Emanuel says honestly, his face surprisingly straight. David looks content to leave it at that, but Max won’t let up. He’s seen enough liars to know Emanuel is one, even if he does have an exceptionally good poker face.

“What about Indie and Mr. Mime?” Max insists.

He shrugs again. “Must have gone back to the cabin. How should I know?”

“Huh, that’s funny. I thought you four were a package deal. You seemed awfully chummy this morning.” He looks at Teddy, visibly sweating and obviously the weakest link when it came to lying. “Do you know where they went, Teddy?”

“Uhh… no, well, I don’t _technically_ know. They were with us when we left but we lost them after— _OW._ What the heck Manuel?” Teddy shoots Emanuel a look, rubbing his kicked shin. “I thought we were going to tell them anyway…”

Max sets his jaw. “You _lost_ them?”

“Of course not! They’ll be here soon! Ha ha. Teddy here was just joking, right Teddy?” Emanuel looks pointedly at Teddy.

“Y-yep you know me, always pulling those practical jokes. That’s why the call me ‘Teddy the wise-cracker’.”

“Well Teddy, I guess the jig is up. Our joke is ruined.”

“I guess it is.”

Max crosses his arms, about to scoff ‘yeah right’ because he doesn’t believe them for one second, when the doors of the mess hall open. He whirls to face Indie, Mr. Mime and the twins, Andreea and Areebah. All of whom are in similar states of affair to Teddy and Emanuel, bringing in half the forest on the soles of their shoes.  
Max looks unimpressed at the additional mess, Teddy and Emanuel look surprised, and David just looks hopelessly lost between them all.

“How did you know they were coming?” From Max’s peripherals, he can see Teddy whisper to Emanuel. The furry quickly corrects himself to ‘Uh! I mean— nothing! I didn’t say anything!’ when Max shoots them a look.

“You all better have a good explanation for whatever the _fuck_ this is.”

“We do.” The twins say together, with freakish synchronisation. Looking at them, their eyes, gives Max a weird feeling (and not the ‘David’s smiling’ weird, more like the first weird, the foggy weird.) His stomach clenches uneasily. _I can’t read them at all._

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He snaps. “Start talking.”

They talk like they’re one entity; not at the same time, but as soon as one pauses the other is ready to pick up the sentence.

“We were just playing a—”

“—friendly game of hide and seek.”

“Teddy and Emanuel escaped us—”

“—but we fo̕ų͠nd̴͠ the other two.”

“Next time—”

“—we won’t lose.”

The fog over Max’s mind abruptly draws back when David interrupts: “Well would you look at that, socializing camp is really paying off! I’m so proud of you girls for making some new friends today! But that still doesn’t excuse what you did to the poor Quartermaster, so as punishment you four will help Teddy and Emanuel clean the mess hall before dinner.  
And you didn’t happen so see the rest of the campers during your game, did you?”

“This is—”

“—understandable.”

“We did not see—”

“—the other campers.”

“Perhaps they returned—”

“To their cabins?”

“Of course, that sounds reasonable. Max, why don’t you go and check on the other campers while I get these trouble makers started on cleaning?”

“Um, yeah.” Max manages to reply to David, glad to have an excuse to not be around the twins. They give him the _heebie-jeebies_ and even as he steps out into the red-orange afternoon the little niggle of worry won’t leave him.  
Max sincerely hopes it’s just first day nerves, because the last time he felt like _this…_

* * *

“Psst, Emanuel.” Teddy hisses, sweeping his way over.

“What?” Emanuel asks between sweeps.

“Don’t you think Indie and Mr. Mime are acting a little strange since they got back?”

“What are you talking about?” He looks at them, diligently sweeping under David’s watchful eye. When David looks their way Emanuel ducks his head and sweeps until his eyes pass over them.

“I don’t know,” Teddy shrugs, jostling Michael tucked under his arm. “They aren’t really acting like themselves.”

“They’re just laying low. And we should too, before we get into any more trouble. We can ask them what happened after dinner.”

“If you say so.”

* * *

“So, how’d you like your first day?”

It’s the twilight hours after dinner, but before bedtime.  
The remainder of the day had passed— surprisingly, considering what he’s already had to deal with— without incident. The other campers were relaxing in their cabins and everyone reached a newly cleaned mess hall at seven P.M. to find that the Quartermaster had once again served potatoes. And, unsurprisingly, Max’s meal once again constituted of a hot coffee and a lot of sugar (He hopes the Quartermaster will be over his mash potato phase soon, because it’s not like he can live on coffee for the rest of his life, no matter how much he wishes he could.) David had looked disapproving at him and his Cup of Joe, but didn’t try to force any not-love-in-them potatoes on him. And afterwards they has retired all the campers to their cabins for one last pre-bed hurrah before lights out.

They’re currently sitting on the sofa in the main room of the counsellors’ cabin trying to squeeze in the last couple of minutes of _Deal or No Deal_ before someone has to get up and put the campers to bed. David is curled up on one side of the couch, his long legs tucked up under what looks like grandma’s crochet blanket. Max is sprawled lazily out over the other side cradling his umpteenth coffee. It’s all very _domestic._

“All I’m gonna say is you’re lucky Gwen had the foresight to purchase a coffee machine.”

David laughs. “That bad? – _Oh man_ , I thought for sure he was going to deal on that last offer. That’s definitely going to come back to bite him.”

“Some of it.” Max answers honestly. Some parts were good too. He especially likes this, right now. “Reckon he’s got the one dollar in his case?”

“Yep.”

They watch the rest of the show not completely in silence, because David makes little noises of disapproval whenever the contestant passes up an offer until he is finally left with the choice of two cases; which has ten thousand dollars, and which has one. All or nothing.

Max barks out a laugh when he pops open his case. “Looks like you were right, Davey.”

“Should have taken the last offer.” David chides the screen. It blinks off when he thumbs the TV remote. He stands up and Max makes to follow his lead only to be stopped. “I’ll go tell the kids lights out. You still haven’t unpacked, have you?”

“You sure?” Max asks, instead of admitting he didn’t come here with much else save the clothes on his back.

David’s smile is reassuring. “Not a problem.”

“Okay then, thanks.”

And when David’s gone Max retreats to his new room, falling onto his bed still fully clothed without so much as brushing his teeth (not that he has a toothbrush— and he makes a mental note to add that to the list of things he needs to buy when he gets his first pay check.) He feels ready to pass the fuck out, and he does. Sleep coming quickly, dreamlessly, and deeply.

* * *

“Where’s Zeshan?” Emanuel asks, looking around the cabin. He could have sworn Zeshan was with them when they walked back from the mess hall.

“Toilet.” Teddy replied, giving Emanuel a look.

“Oh okay, good, then.” Emanuel nods his head, turning to Indie and Mr. Mime, who had been uncharacteristically quiet all evening (Well, in the case of Indie anyway). “So what did you guys find out about the twins?”

“Huh?” Indie asks stupidly around his toothbrush.

“The twins, today, in the woods?” Emanuel sighs as he strips and pulls on his pyjamas. “I really with you would stop with these jokes. They not funny.”

Indie goes into the bathroom to spit his mouthful of toothpaste and comes back with a strange look on his face. “Emanuel what are you talking about we were on the lake shore all day.”

“What— no we weren’t. Today was the day of the big operation. Seriously Indie we’ve been planning this all week.”

“Emanuel, don’t you think I would remember this operation if it were so important?”

“What are you—?” Teddy starts to ask when the cabin door swings open and Zeshan makes his presence known to the group.

“Miss me, butt munches?!”

Following closely at his heel is David. “Alright lights out boys. Big day tomorrow.” Momentarily distracted, they all echo a chorus of ‘goodnights’ in David’s direction as he switches the lights off. Emanuel uses the light of the moon filtering in through the not quite shut curtains to find his was to his bed and fall limply onto the mattress. He can hear Teddy climbing the ladder of the bunk and shuffling around above him to get comfortable.

“Manuel.” Teddy rolls over the side of his bunk and looks down at Emanuel his voice is hushed. “I told you something was up with them.”

“We’ll sort it out in the morning.” Emanuel feels a yawn coming on and rubs his eyes, straining to look up at Teddy in the darkness. He wants nothing more than to sleep right now, he’ll happily leave all the problems for tomorrows him to deal with. “Goodnight Teddy.”

“Alright. Night Manuel.”


	3. Intermission: The book of Tobit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't mean to cause offence to anyone of faith by appropriating this text, this is purely for the purpose of entertainment.
> 
> Note: Any returning readers that haven't seen the chapter two notes yet please do so <3

_≈ 1000 years ago_

* * *

 Faraway, in Media, a young woman named Sarah prays for death in despair after having every man she marries abducted and killed on their wedding night, before the marriage can be consummated, by the demon Asmodeus.

In reply, God sends the angel Raphael, disguised as a human, to free Sarah from the demon. With him, the angel takes Tobias; son of Tobit, cousin of Sarah. And the heart, liver and gall bladder of a fish.

Upon arriving in Media, Raphael tells Tobias of the beautiful Sarah, whom he alone holds the right to wed as her closest relative.  
On the eve of their wedding, Raphael instructs Tobias to burn the fish’s innards to drive away the demon when he attacks.

The fumes of the burning organs drive the demon to Upper Egypt, where Raphael follows and binds him to a more finite form than his substantial demon body. A host of flesh and blood to imprison Asmodeus’ weakened essence.

A hymn of praise is sung in Raphael’s name, for his victory.

And Asmodeus’ demon body is left in the charge of Raphael, who takes it, hides it, and watches over it. For the fleshy prison of the seventh prince of hell will wither and decay, and his ethereal self will be free to seek out its other physical self.


End file.
